Right. Crazy doesn’t define it. These last few days have been interesting to say the least. Now I’ve met some pretty mental people on my travels, but nothing was to compare to the two I run into in the same hostel in Vienna. I have deliberately left out the name of the establishment in case it gets a bad reputation for attracting psychos. This includes me.
Psycho number one comes in the form of a young Turkish lad whose motormouth is rattling cages. He says ‘bruv’ a lot. I’ve decided the best way to regale you with his nonsense is by including a choice collection of his greatest hits. Bear in mind this was pretty much a non-stop, stream of consciousness, so the list is not exhaustive.
“Yeah my girlfriend is pretty small. She’s one of those small ones y’know. I don’t know if you noticed when I stand up but I’m one of those tall ones.” He wasn’t an inch over my mediocre 5’10 frame.
“Since I’ve been here I’ve had sex with over 14 girls.”
“I’ll warn you now if you wake me up when coming in late, I’m military trained and I’d kill you in a second.” Playing Call of Duty doesn’t count.
“I had sex with my girlfriend for the first time just before I left, so yeah, now she’s pretty much in love with me.”
“My ex girlfriend died and I had a stroke due to the stress.”
He then proceeds to interrupt a quiet chat over a few beers with fellow hostel guests by grabbing a guitar and without any social etiquette whatsoever blasts out some ballad numbers, playing and singing far too loud for the situation, sat inches from everyone’s ears. Then he asks me why my mum killed herself after dad died, because that’s obviously what happened and nothing to do with the brain hemorrhage. Now I can maybe forgive his naivety and young years, but I’ve met plenty of 18 year olds who didn’t have a screw loose. Thank goodness he’s gone in the morning, only to be replaced by the oddest man I’ve ever met in my life.
Psycho hostel guest number two is an aging “heart surgeon” from Bulgaria. He’s the love child of Bela Lugosi and Ernest Borgnine. I’m finally painting my model aircraft and he’s standing over me for a good few minutes watching. Eventually he decides he needs to complain about it, and makes a big show of coughing and spluttering, demanding I put it away as he’s allergic to it. His acting ability is worse than mine. He’s gone downstairs to complain, and a staff member has come upstairs to apologise to ME for HIS behaviour, as he’s been offending and pissing everyone off the whole day.
He returns and calls me a “fucking punk” and threatens to call the police. We’re nose to nose and I’m obviously not being too polite. He then apologies, shakes my hand vigorously and with the transformation of Dr Jekyll, he’s explaining how he likes many pungent smells, but not paint. He goes into graphic detail about loving the smell of a woman’s inside leg juices, explaining something about rolling cigars in them, complete with ‘dirty-old-man’ facial expressions and actions. He’s squatting. He’s actually squatting in front of me and miming women juice excretion. All this with a gurning face like a half chewed caramel. I’ve no doubt the cigar thing is true in an attempt to add credibility to his filth, but having this leering old man describing the smell from a woman’s vagina wasn’t what I was into. Then he asks if I’d like one of his nurses to come round and give me a back scrub, before launching into some Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe.
I’ve taken my leave and I’m having a laugh with the hostel staff downstairs about his bullshit. Apparently three other guys have requested a change of room due to his incessant blethering. He’s finding any excuse to complain and coming out with the most inappropriate comments. Upon tentatively sneaking back into my room, I’ve discovered his “chest surgery” business card on my bed. Tonight I will sleep with a knife under my pillow.
Psycho hostel guests
Right. Crazy doesn’t define it. These last few days have been interesting to say the least. Now I’ve met some pretty mental people on my travels, but nothing was to compare to the two I run into in the same hostel in Vienna. I have deliberately left out the name of the establishment in case it gets a bad reputation for attracting psychos. This includes me.
Psycho number one comes in the form of a young Turkish lad whose motormouth is rattling cages. He says ‘bruv’ a lot. I’ve decided the best way to regale you with his nonsense is by including a choice collection of his greatest hits. Bear in mind this was pretty much a non-stop, stream of consciousness, so the list is not exhaustive.
“Yeah my girlfriend is pretty small. She’s one of those small ones y’know. I don’t know if you noticed when I stand up but I’m one of those tall ones.” He wasn’t an inch over my mediocre 5’10 frame.
“Since I’ve been here I’ve had sex with over 14 girls.”
“I’ll warn you now if you wake me up when coming in late, I’m military trained and I’d kill you in a second.” Playing Call of Duty doesn’t count.
“I had sex with my girlfriend for the first time just before I left, so yeah, now she’s pretty much in love with me.”
“My ex girlfriend died and I had a stroke due to the stress.”
He then proceeds to interrupt a quiet chat over a few beers with fellow hostel guests by grabbing a guitar and without any social etiquette whatsoever blasts out some ballad numbers, playing and singing far too loud for the situation, sat inches from everyone’s ears. Then he asks me why my mum killed herself after dad died, because that’s obviously what happened and nothing to do with the brain hemorrhage. Now I can maybe forgive his naivety and young years, but I’ve met plenty of 18 year olds who didn’t have a screw loose. Thank goodness he’s gone in the morning, only to be replaced by the oddest man I’ve ever met in my life.
Psycho hostel guest number two is an aging “heart surgeon” from Bulgaria. He’s the love child of Bela Lugosi and Ernest Borgnine. I’m finally painting my model aircraft and he’s standing over me for a good few minutes watching. Eventually he decides he needs to complain about it, and makes a big show of coughing and spluttering, demanding I put it away as he’s allergic to it. His acting ability is worse than mine. He’s gone downstairs to complain, and a staff member has come upstairs to apologise to ME for HIS behaviour, as he’s been offending and pissing everyone off the whole day.
He returns and calls me a “fucking punk” and threatens to call the police. We’re nose to nose and I’m obviously not being too polite. He then apologies, shakes my hand vigorously and with the transformation of Dr Jekyll, he’s explaining how he likes many pungent smells, but not paint. He goes into graphic detail about loving the smell of a woman’s inside leg juices, explaining something about rolling cigars in them, complete with ‘dirty-old-man’ facial expressions and actions. He’s squatting. He’s actually squatting in front of me and miming women juice excretion. All this with a gurning face like a half chewed caramel. I’ve no doubt the cigar thing is true in an attempt to add credibility to his filth, but having this leering old man describing the smell from a woman’s vagina wasn’t what I was into. Then he asks if I’d like one of his nurses to come round and give me a back scrub, before launching into some Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe.
I’ve taken my leave and I’m having a laugh with the hostel staff downstairs about his bullshit. Apparently three other guys have requested a change of room due to his incessant blethering. He’s finding any excuse to complain and coming out with the most inappropriate comments. Upon tentatively sneaking back into my room, I’ve discovered his “chest surgery” business card on my bed. Tonight I will sleep with a knife under my pillow.